Joan had fallen in love with him quite easily. He was undemanding, fun to be with, and independent – just as she was. If she were to marry and have children, she did not need a husband who would be under her feet all the time.

A year after their marriage, their first son, John, was born. Tommy, having come from a family who thoroughly enjoyed nicknames, immediately gave the poor boy the nomenclature Wool.

The year after that Lavinia – always known as Charles – arrived, and five years after her, came Caroline, usually called Mrs Mooch.

The children were waiting at the door when he arrived home.

‘Hello, sir.’ Wool shook his father’s hand. ‘Good to see you.’

Charles gave her father a kiss on the cheek. ‘Hello, Pa.’

‘Daddy, I have missed you.’ Mrs Mooch threw her arms around him. ‘Have you been to any concerts?’

‘One or two. Jolly good one at the Albert Hall. Schubert. Now do get off me – I need a drink.’

The rib of beef was perfect and the entire family ate in silence as usual. This was a custom that Tommy had insisted on long ago, when the children were small. ‘I don’t like chatter at the table,’ he’d always said. ‘I cannot hear myself think while I eat if there is chatter.’ Joan had always agreed. She thought it was good for the children to learn some self-discipline and it certainly made for faster dinners.

Another rule that Tommy had instilled in them was that no one was to get up and walk about the room during mealtimes, Tommy being the exception. He often got up between courses to look out of the window and jingle the coins in his pocket. Whether he was puzzling over affairs of state or planning how to develop the herbaceous border, no one disturbed him. He was the head of the household and he could do what he jolly well wanted.

After dinner that evening, they settled down as a family to play whist. Joan watched Tommy gradually relax, laughing and conversing with the children while winning hand after hand. She had been worried about him. It had been a terrible year of strain for both of them, but at least she had the fresh air of Sussex, good friends and the garden. Dear Tommy had precious little peace in London.

‘What has it really been like in London, Father?’ Wool asked.

‘Very, very, dull,’ Tommy deadpanned. ‘In fact, if I had my time again, I would never have been a courtier.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ Joan said.

‘Nor I,’ said Charles.

‘What would you have been then?’ asked Mrs Mooch.

Not taking his eyes off his cards, he replied, ‘I would breed horses. They are kind and gentle and truthful. Any kind of horse – racehorses, cart horses, wild horses.’ He looked up at them all. ‘Anything but a courtier.’

Chapter Thirty-Three

Buckingham Palace, 14^th February 1937

Dear Mother and Dad,

My first letter to you on Buckingham Palace notepaper!